Improbable Fiction
by LifeInABox66
Summary: The world is a stage, the nations are players and Arthur Kirkland - dubbed by many as the most unprofessional director-and-co-manager ever to sickly o'er the native hue of Shakespearian theatre - is determined to run it all. AU. Most decidedly AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N

**This does not even come close to qualifying as the nerdiest thing I've ever written, but it might just have made the top ten list. So, basically we have an AU in which all the Hetalia characters are part of a theatre company which specialises in performing Shakespeare plays. Essentially, it's a situation of 'what if everyone in Hetalia was human, living in England, professional actors and obsessed with the Bard? I know, I know, but **_**what if**_**?'**

**This does not mean I've abandoned L'Incorruptible – far from it, seeing as the next chapter will be out soon. This is just me being nerdy and self indulgent on the side, but hopefully it's the sort of self indulgence which other people will enjoy reading. Such is the nature of fanfic!**

**Pairings: Eh, most likely Arthur/Alfred will crop up, with maybe a bit of Francis/Arthur subtext and probably Antonio/Lovino. Plus whatever I decide to throw in later on a whim.  
Warnings: SHAKESPEARE. ... That's pretty much it.**

**Disclaimer: If I **_**did **_**own them, they would, of course, all be performing **_**Hamlet **_**right now.**

* * *

'_If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an ____improbable fiction__.' - ____Twelfth Night_

* * *

"Hey."

"Uh, hey."

"You here for the audition?"

"Yep."

"What'cha reading? 'The Merchant of Venice'... what, you haven't learned your lines yet?"

"Of course I have! I'm just going over them. It's something to do, anyway."

"Tch. How studious. I'm Gilbert, by the way."

"Alfred. Nice to meet you. Are you auditioning too?"

"Me? Heh, no way. I'm a member of the company. I just came down here to terrify all you noobs – well, all you wannabe noobs, anyway."

"I'm not _scared_."

"What – you don't even have a bit of stage fright?"

"I don't do stage fright!"

"I'd wait till you meet Arthur before saying _that_."

"Arthur? That's Arthur Kirkland, right? The manager?"

"Yep. Well, technically he's joint manager along with Elizaveta Héderváry and Francis Bonnefoy. But he's the scary one. Actually, all three are scary for – various reasons. Arthur does most of the casting, though, 'cause he's the director; the other two are actors. So he's sort of the _de facto _boss. He's also a bit – well, frankly, a _lot _of a slave driver."

"So all three will be there for the audition?"

"Uh-huh. Two star actors and one expert director/producer. Who's a slave driver. Nervous now?"

"No! That just means more people to impress, right?"

"Well, you're definitely confident; I'll give you that."

"How long do you think I'll have to wait here? It's been ages."

"Oh, probably three more ages at least. This waiting stuff is like the first ordeal. Tell you what, I'll stay and keep you company. Stop you from dying of boredom."

* * *

"You have to be kidding, Al. Hamlet could take Beatrice any day of the week, and more! He'd throw skulls at her! He'd kill her dad and brother! And then he'd _think about it in a soliloquy lasting over five minutes _!"

"No, Beatrice would just destroy his ego by mocking him in as witty and cutting a way as possible. Then he'd commit suicide out of shame."

"OK, fine, I'll give you that. How about Kate against Beatrice?"

"Beatrice'd still win."

"Kate would be much better in a fight."

"Yeah, but... mockery!"

"Tch, Kate would kick Beatrice's ass from here to Messina."

"All right then, Petruchio against Kate."

"That's cheating! No characters from the same play."

"Crap. Bassanio against Kate."

"Bassanio wouldn't stand a chance against _Ophelia_, let alone Kate."

"Prospero against Kate. Come on, Gilbert, he'd win hands down - magical powers, anyone?"

"... All right, Iago against Prospero."

"And again I say magical powers."

"Yeah, but Iago would just manipulate him into not using them. Then he'd persuade him to _wreck his whole life systematically._"

"Richard III against Iago."

"Hmm. Tough one. I'm gonna say Richard III, if he's still king at the time, but Iago if not. More money and resources means more effective manipulation."

"All right... Lady Macbeth against Richard III."

"Richard would win."

"Like hell he would! He'd waste time trying to talk his way out of it; Lady Macbeth would just ignore everything he says and kill him straight away!"

"Viola against Lady Macbeth."

"... Viola."

"Yeah, Viola."

"Alfred Jones?"

"Huh?"

"That sounded like Liz's voice. Looks like you're finally being called for that audition."

"Oh yeah, right! Well, uh, thanks – it's been great."

"Break a leg, kid."

"I can only hope you don't mean that literally."

* * *

Arthur watches the next actor saunter in, with the utmost nonchalance. After six hours spent judging young hopefuls who would challenge Hermione for the status of 'absolutely petrified', it makes for a pleasant change. He is about to say something to this effect for Francis' benefit, but decides against it; there is something in this – this _Alfred_'s demeanour which seems to demand his full attention.

Alfred quietly passes Elizaveta his CV. The silence is awkward and the atmosphere oppressive, as it is meant to be. No visible trembling, which is another count in his favour as far as Arthur is concerned. Thus far, Arthur is not unimpressed. Francis would scoff, but first impressions form the basis of most of Arthur's casting decisions and – a few minor miscalculations notwithstanding – thus far, this has proven effective. As far as this particular first impression goes, Arthur decides it is... not unsatisfying.

"Thanks for giving me the chance to audition. I'm Alfred F. Jones and I'm going to be performing Gratiano's speech from Act 1, Scene 1." Voice: bold and expressive, perhaps bordering on brash, but this is not an insurmountable problem in relation to the stage. Accent: American, but hardly a transgression given that the company (despite Arthur's best efforts to put his strict Shakespeare orthodoxy into practice) boasts what is probably the world's most multi-cultural cast. Posture: slouched, but confidently so – forgivable.

"Your thoughts?" Francis murmurs in Arthur's ear. Arthur shushes him with an almost imperceptible wave of the hand, never moving his eyes away from the actor standing assertively at the centre of the room. Francis rolls his eyes irritably at Elizaveta, who answers with the shadow of a half smile.

Arthur's thoughts are, on the whole, favourable. Alfred's originality is surprising; upon being instructed to select a speech from _The Merchant of Venice, _most of the prospective actors – bar a few notable exceptions – opted for the obvious: either one of Shylock's more recognisable speeches, or (depending on the gender) one of Portia's. No one else chose Gratiano. Originality is not always a bonus, Arthur knows, but in this case it reflects well on Alfred. Plus, he said he would be _performing _rather than _reading _the speech, which at least indicates the appropriate attitude. His only drawback thus far is perhaps his arrogance, but again, as far as acting is concerned, this is hardly a flaw of the fatal variety.

In answer to Francis' question, Arthur (still facing forward) scrawls a reply on a scrap of paper and passes it surreptitiously along. Francis, insufferable git that he is, peers at it, making a great show of being unable to read the handwriting.

The missive in question reads: _not half bad._

Thus judged, Alfred begins his performance.

"_Let me play the fool:  
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,  
And let my liver rather heat with wine  
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans_."

And so on. Arthur is surprised to find that he does not think the accent cloying in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. Alfred Jones' manner is warm, mischievous and vibrant. Arthur watches, transfixed, as he travels through the speech, dominating the hollow, echoing room by sheer force of personality alone. He is filled with... charisma is the wrong word, as he is altogether too young and excitable – _panache _is a better term. Although irritatingly French. Actually, scratch that; _charisma _works fine.

... Overall, he is. Well. Fairly good. Good-ish.

"Your. Thoughts." Francis mutters to Arthur through gritted teeth. Arthur is notorious for making speedy decisions without consulting the cast – Francis seems to believe that the method to overcoming this problem is to consult Arthur every minute or so. Some people are simply neurotic, Arthur reasons.

(Francis maintains that some people are simply unprofessional.)

By way of response, Arthur tosses another note in his direction. _Fairly -ish. Now piss off, I want to listen._

Truth be told, he does not need to. True to form, he has already made his characteristically speedy decision.

* * *

"Hey, kid. How'd it go?"

"It went well, I think. Really well, actually."

"Glad to hear it."

"Hey – hey, Gilbert?"

"Yeah?"

"... Arthur Kirkland is the one with the eyebrows, right?"

"Ha! Yeah, he's the one with the eyebrows."

"Right. Well, he didn't seem all that scary to me. I think I impressed him."

"I doubt that. But good luck, anyway."

"Don't you mean 'break a leg'?"

* * *

"So," says Arthur, after waiting for the sound of Alfred's footsteps down the corridor to recede. He turns to Elizaveta and Francis. "Your thoughts?"

A pause. "He's good," Elizaveta ventures. "He has potential. Enthusiasm. All of that."

"Certainly he was better than any of the others," says Francis.

"That's a given," says Arthur, dismissively. "Listen, can we cancel the rest of the auditions? I've made up my mind."

Elizaveta and Francis' respective _'What?'_s echo in perfect unison. It is, Arthur thinks, almost comical. Their faces fall, also simultaneously, when they realise that Arthur is almost certainly about to screw them over again, and there is very little they can do to prevent him from getting his way. Besides yelling about it, that is.

"_Cretin!"_ Francis yells at him.

"_Hulye!_" Elizaveta concurs.

"_Stupide!_"

"_Ostoba!"_

"_Typique!" _Francis appeals to her, despairingly.

"_Jellegzetes!" _Elizaveta agrees.

"What is the matter with you two?" says Arthur, irritated.

"_You _are the matter!" Elizaveta declares exasperatedly. "_You_, with your idiotic, devil-may-care attitude towards running a theatre company! We are willing to put up with your ideas on how to perform Shakespeare, no matter how archaic other people think they are. That's not a problem! But when you come up with ideas like this – _that _is what we resent. You are _not _our boss, Arthur. We founded this company together and, like it or not, we will not pander to your _whims_!" Her words smoulder with rage. Arthur is almost taken aback.

"Particularly not this one," Francis adds, calmly. "What do you expect us to do with the applicants who haven't auditioned yet, pray tell? Phone them up and tell them 'we are dreadfully sorry, but our casting director has decided to hire one Alfred F. Jones, without the consent of his colleagues, irrespective of the number of people who may be more suited to a place in the company'?"

"Yes, if you must," shrugs Arthur. "I really don't mind what you tell them."

"_You_ are the most unprofessional director-cum-joint-manager ever to – to –" With an incoherent noise of frustration, Francis collapses into a chair, words evidently having failed him.

"- To poison the stage with his presence!" finishes Elizaveta, vehemently. Francis tilts his head to one side, considering the accuracy of this statement, and eventually nods in agreement. "What do you propose we do?" she implores Francis.

"Well," he says to her. "On the count of three, you fetch a frying pan and I'll make a grab for some duct tape. Your job is to knock him unconscious, whilst I gag him. We stuff him in the cupboard and keep him there for the rest of the year, occasionally supplying him with scraps of fish and chips, and copies of _The Stage _magazine. That way we are all happy, no?"

"Don't tempt me," Elizaveta warns. "I might decide to take you seriously." The majority of her fury seems spent, however.

Francis also looks less likely to disembowel him than before; thus, Arthur judges it is safe to speak. "Who says I am going to hire him, Francis?" he says, evenly.

"Don't you mean 'who says _we _are going to' -" Francis begins. Then, realisation hits. "– what did you say?" he splutters.

"I said – I indicated – that I, for one, do not intend to hire Alfred F. Jones for our production of _The Merchant of Venice_," says Arthur, ensuring that every word is trimmed with perfect – nay, some might say _over _perfect – enunciation.

Silence descends. The tension-filled kind.

"Explain," orders Elizaveta, warily.

"Last month, my sister left the company to go home to Ireland. Thus, we were left with a vacancy."

"We _know_," she says, through heavily gritted teeth. "Don't patronise us, Arthur."

"For our current performance, we do not require the extra member," Arthur continues, giving little consideration to the interruption. "True, we needed someone to play Antonio, but I think it was unwise to allot a major role to a new member anyway. Instead, let's double up some roles for this production, and then shuffle the casting around. We can even ask Toris or someone to lend a hand by acting some minor parts. We've done it before. We can make do." He rests his hands lightly on the desk, masterfully. "We do not need the extra cast member for this performance. There is no need to hire _anyone_."

Cue disgust and outrage – mostly at the futility of the whole venture- on the part of his colleagues. But that, Arthur recognises, is to be expected.

"So _what _exactly are we telling the applicants?" Elizaveta asks, agitated.

"Preferably something that does not result in an angry mob," suggests Francis.

"Leave it to me," says Arthur. "I'll deal with them all."

With that, he leaves the audition hall, so swiftly that he is not precisely sure whether the looks on their faces are of hope or of horror. He genuinely hopes for the former.

* * *

"Mattiemattiemattie! Matt! Are you there?"

"... Alfie, it's 3:00am. Why are you calling?"

"It took me a while to find your phone number. I think I keyed the wrong digits in my phone, so I had to phone up all your friends to find it, only they kept getting it wrong too, but eventually I found it on a scrap of paper on my desk when I was tidying it 'cause I couldn't sleep, 'cause – Matt, guess what? Guess what?"

"Ugh. Too tired to guess."

"Arthur Kirkland just hired me as an apprentice!"

"..."

"Matt?"

"Who. What."

"Arthur Kirkland! The director! He's going to train me to be an actor in his Shakespeare company!"

"..."

"Mattie, you still there?"

"... Congratulations. Um. Why do you need training?"

"He says I'm good – Mattie, he says I'm a good actor! _Quite_ good, even! – but I'll need a lot of teaching because his company is really specific in the way they, you know, interpret and perform the plays and stuff. So he's going to teach me, and in a few months I might be a proper member of the company!"

"That's good. _Really_ good, Al."

"Thanks! I knew you'd be pleased for me!"

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"Go. To. Sleep. Now."

"'Kay!"

* * *

"You specifically told us, _Anglais,_" says Francis, menacingly, "that you were not going to hire Alfred Jones!"

"I told you nothing of the sort. What I actually said was I did not intend to give him a part in _The Merchant of Venice, _which I do not. I do, however, wish to make him part of our theatre company." It is logical enough, thinks Arthur. Some people, however, are simply not... logical enough.

"You – you told us you would take care of the applicants, precisely so that you could phone him! Illicitly!" Really, Francis must be aware of how puffed up and foolish he sounds. _Illicitly indeed!_

"Oh, yes, about the applicants – you and Elizaveta are going to have to watch the rest of the auditions," Arthur informs them, calmly. "Regrettable, but unavoidable, I'm sorry to say. But don't worry – you don't need to choose anyone! Just sit and watch."

"What." Francis' voice is toneless, and therefore dangerous.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Be reasonable, Francis," Arthur implores him, with no little dignity. "I could hardly phone them all up and tell them that –"

"Enough!" shouts Francis. He then proceeds to wax mournful. "Twenty more sessions of _to bait fish withal, if it feed nothing it will feed my revenge... _nodding encouragingly as they maul the script with their overacting and their under-acting and their - everything in between. I hate you," he adds, for good measure.

"And yet I have nothing but the _deepest_ regard for you," smirks Arthur. Mocking? He? Perish the thought.

"Tch. Wait until Eliza hears about this. You are dead, _Anglais. _A dead man walking."

"Oh, I'm sure I am, Frog."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

**Enjoy! **

**("What is the point of an author's note containing one word?" I hear you ask? Yes, well, I'm feeling taciturn today. Meh.)**

* * *

During their first meeting of the new season, the cast is aware that the three co-managers all want to kill each other. As per usual. Of course, there are normally variations. Sometimes both Elizaveta and Arthur are intent on killing Francis. Sometimes, Francis wants to kills Arthur, whilst Elizaveta wants to kill Francis, and Arthur seems as though he would not mind killing both. Sometimes, albeit rarely, both Francis and Arthur want to kill Elizaveta, whilst Elizaveta could not care less about the two of them, and would settle for just killing Gilbert.

Whatever the combination, the homicidal inclinations are always there. Generally, they tend to manifest in both Elizaveta and Francis wanting to kill Arthur, and Arthur wanting to kill Francis. This is largely because Arthur is disagreeable, unsociable and, as Francis would have it, the most unprofessional director-cum-producer-cum-joint -manager ever to –t o

" – Ever to contaminate the world of performing arts by his very existence," Elizaveta finishes. Liz, Gilbert allows, has occasionally quite a way with words. By 'a way', he means 'can be occasionally terrifying'. "Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new quasi-member in our midst. Allow me to introduce you to –"

"Alfie!" yells Gilbert, happily, bounding over to greet him. Sure enough, there is the boy from the audition, standing boldly by Arthur's side. "Welcome to the most awesome Shakespeare company in the world, ever!"

"- Alfred Jones, for those of you to whom he isn't apparently some long lost friend," says Elizaveta, perplexed.

"All right, before you all swamp him, I have some announcements to make," says Arthur. Liz looks extremely put out by his interruption, Gilbert notes. Tch. Tension between the managers. Probably Arthur's fault. "Congratulations, Yao, you're now playing the part of Antonio, rather than Lorenzo. Toris? If Ivan can spare you from the production team, it'd be great if _you_ could play Lorenzo for this production."

Gilbert glances at Toris, who looks as though he can hardly believe his luck. "He's probably happy to get away from Ivan in Stage Management," Gilbert whispers to Alfred (loudly) by way of explanation. Predictably, Ivan looks furious.

"Arthur, you _cannot _keep stealing members of my stage crew like this," he appeals.

"It's strictly on a temporary basis," Arthur assures him. "We're one member short, you see, and Alfred is not ready to play such a role yet." Gilbert raises an eyebrow. Alfred may not realise it, but the use of _yet _is a firm vote of confidence. Clearly the boss is smitten. "Surely you can manage without him."

Ivan heaves a gusty sigh and mutters something in Russian. Gilbert's memory of the language is a little fuzzy, but he gets the impression that Ivan is lamenting Arthur's perilous ignorance of the intricacies of stage management. Or possibly just telling him to go screw himself. Like he said – fuzzy.

Meanwhile, Arthur lists the names and roles of everyone in the group, presumably for Alfred's benefit. Alfred has the look of someone who is forgetting the new information almost as quickly as he learns it.

"Wait till we get started with the rehearsal and I'll introduce you properly," Gilbert assures him.

"Thanks," Alfred whispers, gratefully. "I'm not so good at remembering names."

Arthur begins talking to the stage crew, allowing Gilbert time to carry out his tour. "OK, kid. I guess we'll go through the cast list." He consults said list, a worn, crumpled scrap of paper with the cast members' names and roles – Arthur had distributed them earlier that morning. "First there's Wang Yao, who'll as of now be playing Antonio."

"It's a bit weird of Arthur to spring that on him just now, don't you think?"

"Well, whatever. I'm surprised he didn't wait until opening night to give him the news. Then there's – well, I'm next on the list. I'm playing Bassanio. I'll be the Princes of Morocco and Aragon too, because Arthur has a weird sense of humour. He likes the idea of Bassanio orchestrating everything by pretending to be Portia's other suitors – it's probably something _he _would do himself. Also, I guess he figured I'm just awesome enough to pull that amount of badassery off. You know what I like about Bassanio? He's a total jerk – strings Antonio along, marries Portia for her money, is a dick to Shylock – but in the end he still gets the money and the girl. You've got to admire that!"

"That's kind of interes –"

"Next, we have Antonio, who plays Gratiano, and yes, the names _are _going to be a bitch to remember when there are Antonios all over the place, both in the cast _and _the play. But anyway. Antonio's friendly, but kind of clueless. Like, if we were putting on _Othello, _he'd play Roderigo."

"Right. So is Antonio a Spanish name –"

"Then there are the Italian brothers, Feliciano and Lovino. Feliciano is really hyper and cheerful; his brother is really hyper and grumpy. Those two play the Salads (Salanio and Salarino, I mean), Feliciano's also playing two of the servants and Lovino will be, uh – hah! – Nerissa. They're sometimes given female roles when we don't have enough girls. Feliks normally gets the girls' roles when they're available, but for some reason Liz was determined that Lovino play Nerissa." Gilbert gives a sharp cackle. "I'm betting Lovino will be _thrilled _that Antonio's playing his love interest."

"So how come there are so few girls, anyw–"

"Now playing Lorenzo alongside Natalia's Jessica is Toris. Probably another reason why he's happy to be acting. Careful around Natalia – if you annoy her, she will _stab _you with _knives _or something and it will _hurt_. But don't worry about Toris – I don't think he could hurt anyone if he tried." Um. Forgetting about that one fight he had with Toris and Feliks, that is. Where Toris totally cheated.

"And how come there are so many crazy peop-"

"You've already met Elizaveta, who's playing Portia, and Francis who's playing Shylock and Old Gobbo. They're sort of like the stars of the cast, although sometimes Arthur will give them more minor parts because he likes everyone to have a chance to be Hamlet, or whatever."

"Yeah, he seems cool like tha-"

"Playing Balthazaar, Tubal and the Duke of Venice is my brother, Ludwig. He's pretty new to the company – I've been around here longer than he has. I persuaded him to audition after there was a vacancy in the cast. Anyway, then there's Feliks, who's playing Launcelot. That's it for the actors."

"It's a pretty small company, isn't it?"

"I guess. Arthur likes it that way. So then we get to the stage crew. Ivan's stage manager and Raivis and usually Toris are his assistants. Eduard is in charge of lighting, Kiku's on set design, not quite sure what Gupta and Yong Soo actually _do _– something to do with props or continuity, I think. Nice guys, though (did you know that Shakespeare was actually Korean? Neither did I). Vash is in charge of costume design. His sister sometimes helps out, too (I _think_ she's his sister, at least). We also have musicians: Tino, Berwald, Sadiq and Heracles. Oh, and there's Roderich in charge of sound and composing. He's an arrogant bastard – you should stay away from him."

Roderich, noticing Alfred staring at him, gives a friendly nod. Alfred looks flustered. Gilbert glares.

"I think that's pretty much everyone," he says. "Except Arthur, of course, who you already know. Oh, and Arthur's little brother, Peter, who sometimes helps out backstage. There also used to be Niamh, Athur's sister, but she left a few weeks ago, which is why we have a vacancy in the cast. Aileen, his other sister, used to be prompter, but she went to live in Scotland. Come to think of it, Arthur doesn't really get on well with his family."

"Seems like you get people from all over the place in this company."

"You think? Hell, we're like the most multi-cultural cast in England. Actually, I think Arthur's the only one in the company who's English. Most of us were born here, though. As for the rest... well, Arthur _tried_ to get us to use Received Pronunciation at first. Frankly, it failed. Then he decided that the actors in Shakespeare's time would have had a mixture of accents anyway, and so it didn't matter." Arthur can often be selective with his interpretations.

Gilbert remembers that he should probably inform Alfred of the various group dynamics: who speaks to whom, who is sworn enemies with whom – that sort of stuff. He manages to divulge a few of the basics (ignoring Alfred's frequent interjections:

"So, hang on, _that's _Feliks? I thought 'Feliks' was a guy's na– _oh_. NevermindforgetwhatIsaid."

"... Are you _sure _only two of the cast are girls?"

"I don't think Shakespeare was actually Korean, you know."

"So Feliciano's really _not_ on drugs?"

"I still don't get why you think Roderich is such a bad guy. He looks OK."

"Seriously, not _one _of the cast is English? That's pretty cool, but I mean what were the chances?"

"His hair is _what_?"

"She thought she was a – _what?_"

"Become _what _with him?"

"Sorry – vital _what?_")

...Before Arthur motions for the room to be silent. "Right," he says. "Here are your scripts –" Toris is mutely handing them out "- I want you word-perfect by Wednesday. Then, we shall begin rehearsing."

Cue shouts of dissent from the cast.

"Wednesday? That's in, like, two days time!"

"Your point, Feliks?" inquires Arthur, benignly. Gilbert feels a rush of annoyance.

"His _point, Anglais, _I believe, is that you told us we would have five days in which to memorise our lines." Francis stares blandly at Arthur.

Not only that – he _promised_.

"Well, yes, I did," admits Arthur. "However, I had anticipated that someone new would be playing Antonio – thus, we would need extra time for me to train him or her. Seeing as Alfred is not to become a full member of the company for some times, I believe two days will be sufficient; I will see to his tutelage in between rehearsals." He smiles at Francis. "So, you see, it's perfectly logical."

"Every freaking day, he has to do something like this," fumes Gilbert, seething.

"In all fairness, Kirkland-san is an incredibly skilled director," remarks Kiku to him, quietly.

"Yeah, he just hates showing it," replies Gilbert, dismissively. Though, if he is honest, everyone was expecting something like this to happen; most of them are resigned to it and not genuinely upset. Damned if they're not going to kick up a fuss about it on principle, though. "Still star-struck?" he hisses to Alfred.

"That wasn't fair of him," Alfred whispers back. He was actually expecting Arthur to be _fair, _implying _reasonable _– really it is almost sweet.

"Heh. Expect that and a whole lot more from now on. Sure you don't wish you'd joined a normal, sane theatre company?"

"It was tough enough getting a job in the first place," Alfred says, running a hand through his hair in order to clear it from his eyes. "I'll reserve judgement for now." He glances up at Arthur, looking sheepish, like a meek pupil caught talking during class. Gilbert snickers audibly. He looks up and his amusement fades; there stands Arthur with that obnoxious, calculating look on his face. Ugh. For Arthur, the stage is his chess game; the players his pawns or some shit like that. _Here's to hoping the kid can cope with that._

* * *

In accordance with previous instructions, Alfred stays behind afterwards – thus, his first lesson commences. It was not difficult for Arthur to persuade Elizaveta that he would take on Alfred's teaching alone. Persuading Francis to leave well alone was considerably trickier – so tricky, Arthur reminds himself, that he has not yet agreed to do so. Well. He'll work on that later.

Alfred looks somewhat awkward. Time to break the ice? "I feel it only fair to warn you that I've had little experience in teaching someone so..." Arthur trails off, realising that the entire sentence was probably a bad idea, given that he was almost certainly about to end with 'obviously _in_experienced'. Not to mention the overwhelming false modesty of the entire statement.

Alfred blinks at the pause. "Someone so awesome?" he suggests.

_Please tell me I haven't hired yet another narcissist. _The comment was made with all innocence and, worryingly, no irony."We'll go with that," Arthur decides. But, honestly, he is not sure if he can stomach any more abuse of the word _awesome_ than he is already subjected to, care of Feliks and Gilbert.

"Well, I never went to acting college, so I probably won't know the difference," shrugs Alfred.

"You've had no official training?" Excellent. Re-learning is far more difficult than learning for the first time, after all. It means he has skill, but as of yet it is unrefined. Largely, that is good. Alfred is perfectly set up to be Arthur's protégé.

Alfred considers. "I got an A-level in Drama and I've been in a lot of amateur productions, but this is my first big professional job. I've been sort of in and out of auditions for a year since I left Sixth Form." Good grief - the boy is only nineteen. Still, who is Arthur to criticise where age is concerned? He, Elizaveta and Francis are not so much older, despite having founded a stage company of their own.

"A-levels. So you grew up in England?" Arthur asks.

"Been here since I was twelve." Alfred grins (expressive, sunny - perfect for the stage, Arthur judges). "Never lost the accent, though."

"Indeed."

"You know, you could have read most of this information on my CV," says Alfred. "Did you even look at it?" Arthur darts an incredulous glance at him. "So, uh, I'll take that as a no?"

"I can judge whether or not a person can act without the aid of some piece of paper," Arthur says, scornfully. He considers for a second. "Generally I can judge before they even begin their audition piece."

"Yeah, yeah, but that thing was a pain to write!" Alfred's confidence, Arthur reasons, will always be an asset. His brashness... perhaps not so much, depending on the role. "I wish I hadn't bothered."

Arthur chuckles. "You may need it for future auditions. I have often been told that I am quite unorthodox in my approach, which is odd, given that I am, if anything, the opposite."

"Huh?"

"Well, I assume you've read up on our company, so you know all about our aims and approach."

To Arthur's satisfaction, Alfred looks completely dumbfounded. "Yes," he decides, after a notable pause, having decided it is obviously the right answer to give.

Arthur studies him for a handful of seconds, which must be agonising. "Clearly I had assumed incorrectly," he eventually drawls. Drawling in his accent has an effect which borders on rakish. Alfred looks away. "All right," says Arthur, taking pity on him. "I'll summarise. Listen carefully, as this is what distinguishes our company from any other. We always try to recreate the sense of the Elizabethan era with our productions. We use, as far as is possible or comprehensible, only techniques which would have been used in Shakespeare's day. This includes the way we speak and learn our lines, the costumes, the set, the lighting – but, above all, the atmosphere. What we aim for is historical accuracy. Obviously, this entails some compromises when considering factors that would be alien to the modern ear – we do not, for instance, use 16th century accents. There was a production which tried once and nobody in the audience could understand a word. But we'll discuss that later."

"So when the audience go into the theatre, it's like they've stepped back in time?" Alfred asks.

"Yes. We try, at least."

"Cool!" he says, at a volume that is entirely unsuitable for conversation, but useful on stage.

"Quite," Arthur winces. "Although that sort of exclamation is usually considered anachronistic in this environment."

Alfred scowls. "I'm not about to go around thee-ing and thou-ing in real life," he says, childishly.

"Method acting is not compulsory," Arthur assures him (laughing internally at the thought that _enforced _method acting may as well be). "But, having said that, I think it's time to begin our lesson."

Alfred leans forward. "All right!"

"So," says Arthur, "to begin with, aptly enough, I'll teach you how we learn our lines. In Shakespeare's day, no-one besides the prompter was given a full script. This was largely because there was nothing to prevent an actor from stealing said script and performing it with a theatre troupe elsewhere. Also, it saved paper. Instead, the players were only given their own lines."

"Uh... huh?"

"To place them within the play, they were also given cues: i.e. The previous words spoken before their lines began. So, for instance, if my line was '_What news on the Rialto? Who is it that comes here?' _and your reply was '_This is Signor Antonio'_, your script would contain your line along with the cue '_comes here?'_, which is the end of my previous line."

"Um. So it tells you when to speak your line by giving you the previous line of dialogue?"

"Exactly." Arthur is glad he understands – how he hates explaining the same thing twice! "Once given their lines, the actors would memorise them, cues and all, on their own. Only then would the rehearsals begin. Hence why I gave the cast some time in which to learn their scripts. We mimic these techniques in order to keep the performances authentic."

Alfred laughs, carelessly. "You do all that for nothing? But it's pointless! Everything would be a mess! If someone forgets a cue, the whole play stops..."

Arthur smiles, satisfied. "Hence the need for a prompter," he explains. "It is their job to supply the line from backstage if the actor forgets."

"But, I mean," says Alfred, more seriously, "you still haven't told me what the _point _is. Shakespeare did it 'cause he had to. What's your excuse?"

Arthur is glad that the boy perceives the problems. Alfred is, he allows, tolerably quick. "Because of what is gained," Arthur divulges, relishing the moment. "Shakespeare, skilled playwright that he was, used the medium to his best advantage. When we use his exact methods, new veins of meaning are discovered. Ever wonder why he uses so few stage directions?"

"Because it's all there in the speech, I thought?"

"Because it is all there in the _script." _Alfred is hanging on his every word; Arthur perhaps enjoys keeping him in suspense a tad more than is necessary. Well, no matter – time for the great revelation. Arthur recalls with fondness the first time he learned all of this and, for a moment, almost envies the novice actor. "Take this," he says, handing Alfred a page of script – the normal edition. It is a portion of _The Merchant of Venice. _"Notice anything?" he asks.

Alfred smirks. "Yeah, there's some writing on the page." _Oh, good grief._

"About the _content_?"

"It's Shylock making a speech, followed by Antonio, then Salarino. See?" he says, angling the paper so that Arthur can see it. Face alight with mischief. Now he is being deliberately obtuse.

Arthur sighs, mentally revising his judgement _vis-a-vis _Alfred's alleged quickness. "Look at Salarino's line. _It is the most impenetrable cur, _etcetera. What would his cue be?"

Alfred checks. "Shylock's previous line: _I will have my bond. _Right?"

"Right. Now read it through again."

He does so. And again. Then: comprehension. "Shylock says that line twice! No, wait – more than twice!"

"Precisely." Hallelujah. "Shylock complains throughout the play that the others interrupt and belittle him. The actor playing Salarino, in this scene, will be constantly stepping in with his line, because the cue is repeated. He would attempt to say the line a handful of times before the genuine cue arrived! He would have no choice but to interrupt the actor playing Shylock! Thus, Shakespeare deliberately ensures that the other actors are constantly butting in before Shylock finishes his lines."

"Wait..." Alfred studies the script once more. "I get that... wow! Does this happen all the time?"

"Constantly." Arthur feels a rush of gladness as Alfred's face lights with the satisfaction of discovery. Really, this role of teacher induces the most fascinating nostalgia – it feels as though he is reliving his days at university. Before he dropped out, that is.

He shows Alfred another example of cues from _A Midsummer Night's Dream, _where the character Flute reads out his cue by mistake. The ensuing dialogue ensures that the actor playing Bottom's actual cue is also repeated, meaning that Bottom constantly enters at the wrong time. "The result?" says Arthur. "Meticulously planned pandemonium. All of this enhances the comedy." Alfred laughs appreciatively, causing Arthur to laugh as well. The clamour fills the room to the brim. A rehearsal space, thinks Arthur, should never be silent.

"But that's not all," he adds. Alfred's rapt expression is worth the little indulgence of suspense, although Arthur recognises that he is being unashamedly theatrical with this lesson. Alfred seems to enjoy the performance, though, which is refreshing. So few are willing to be Arthur's audience these days. "The way the lines are presented give insight into each character. An actor given the lines of Marcellus from Hamlet, for instance, will be able to understand his status instantly: almost every single line includes the phrase _my lord, _indicating that he is subordinate to the person he is talking to."

"I'll bet whoever ended up with _that _script felt pretty hard done by," laughs Alfred. Arthur smiles in assent.

"Still," Arthur continues, "it is revealing for every character. For instance, when viewing Olivia's lines in _Twelfth Night, _it is easy to mark the moment in which she changes from speaking in prose to speaking in verse. This indicates an important shift in her mood."

Alfred leans over Arthur's shoulder to see the script in question. "She falls in love!" he realises.

"That she does," Arthur confirms, handing over the paper.

"So the script shows you the exact moment she falls in love with Viola!" announces Alfred, triumphantly.

"Cesario," corrects Arthur, pedantically. "She falls in love with Cesario."

"Same person," shrugs Alfred.

"Are they?" wonders Arthur, momentarily. "Olivia loves an illusion, nothing more – Cesario is but a shadow."

"She loves the person," insists Alfred, perplexed. "Viola _is _Cesario."

Arthur studies him for a brief moment. The transient confusion on Alfred's face has fled, giving way to an air of assurance. He probably realises he has touched on a complex debate, but does not wish to venture further; simple declarations suffice as far as he is concerned. Well, Arthur will teach him to argue with the best of them ("_we'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart"_), not that Alfred needs any help in being combative.

Alfred tilts his head to one side, bird-like, and Arthur realises that his contemplations have not been so brief after all.

"Well, to return to our main theme," he manages, "even when mechanised printing made full scripts easier to produce, this method of learning lines continued well into the next couple of centuries, precisely because authors enjoyed it for the nuances they could add, whilst actors prized it for the insight they gained into their characters."

Alfred nods. "Sounds kind of fun. I can't wait to try it!"

"You won't wait for long," says Arthur, drily. "During tomorrow's lesson, we'll be putting this into practice."

So far, Alfred shows signs of being... fairly good. Good-ish. Hardly surprising that the impression is consistent; Arthur rarely encounters the need to revise his opinions.


End file.
